Locked in a Room in My Heart
by Inspector Minkey
Summary: When the future is too painful, one must turn to the past for solace. As tragedy overwhelms his spirit, his family, and his people, Elrond Peredhil walks in memories of merrier times.
1. Third Age, 2510

Insert standard disclaimer here. And since nobody can convince me that Jackson even knows who most of these characters are or what events this story encapsulates, he can hardly own any of them, now can he? 

**Locked in a Room in My Heart**

The Hall was made ready.

Garlands of willow-boughs plaited with blue cornflowers—plucked by the young maidens as a final tribute to their beloved mistress—bedecked the exquisitely carved beams of the ceiling. Tall, white candles of moulded beeswax were set in silver sconces set atop sculpted marble pillarettes that had been brought down from the libraries on the second floor. Shirred violet draperies had been purloined from the master bedchamber in the west tower, uninhabited these many months. They now covered the walls and softened corners not usually revealed in a room where the ever-burning fire was almost always the chief illumination. No darkness would be allowed to violate that room tonight, save that most dreadful kind of all: the darkness of the heart. Even the master of the house could not banish from his home what he could not drive out of himself.

He stood now in the resplendent yet sombre room, while in a corner harps and lutes were tuned to the carefully crafted pipes, and musical voices conversed quietly. His eyes rested upon the tow great chairs draped in cloth of mithril and gold that awaited him and his lady, but his mind walked in the distant years of a happier Age.


	2. Second Age, 1703

**_Second Age, 1703_**

The Sun rode high above the Hithaiglir, bathing the labourers in its loving light. The masons bent diligently over their intricate stonecutting while the carvers laboured over great boles of felled oak and mahogany, destined to become pillars and beams. Those with talents in the appropriate direction were ceiling the deep cellars or laying cornerstones. In the smithy, spikes were being crafted and latches and hinges being wrought of fair and enduring metals. The glaziers were busy shaping and colouring glass as only their folk could, for a day would come when the windows would be needed. All worked with great care and meticulous industry. They were building a house designed to last through many thousands of years.

Having no talents in any way related to the particulars of construction, the High King's emissary and the lord of all the labouring folk was occupied in one of the troughs, treading mortar for the builders. The builders went through it at a great pace, for all that they were only now starting on the walls themselves, and those who mixed it—chiefly warriors and scouts with little knowledge of the arts of the Noldor, were kept busy. It was not unpleasant work, as it so easily might have been. The company was merry and the day pleasant. It was good, also, that the master of this new haven was occupied in this lowliest of labours in the making of his own home. It proved that the young princeling was not only a dour captain of desperate war, but also worthy of this more peaceful charge and the offices he held.

Elrond thought little of this. He was not over fond of manual labour, being more inclined to his studies and his writing, but the valley was beauteous in the sunlight, and the house must be build. As for the status of his task, years under the command of Maedhros son of Fëanor had cured him of whatever stiff-necked pride he might otherwise have inherited from his renowned forbearers. He was content, for his was the serenity of a general when rest comes after trial and peace comes after long strife. His folk were safe and his toils past, and there was nothing now in his world save the sounds of sand and chisel and laughter in the clement afternoon.

As he worked, a sound of horses came to him and he turned. Through the trees came a great horse, such as the Noldor had bred through all their long years in Middle-earth to serve in the hunt and the war. Upon it, crowned with golden braids in which it was said the light of the Two Trees was caught, sat the Lady Galadriel. Her coming, unheralded though it was, was not unexpected, for Elrond knew full well that he held something in his keeping that she would one day want back.

He stepped out of the trough with help from a grinning foreman, and rinsed his hands in a barrel kept for that purpose. His dark hair was flying loose from its plait in random tendrils, his short tunic was smudged with sweat and lime, and his bare legs were crusted with mortar, but he was not shamed by his appearance. It was that of one engaged in honest labour, and in any case the last scion of the house of Finarfin had seen him at far more inopportune moments.

'Welcome to Imladris, lady,' he said, bowing to her. 'I regret that we cannot make you suitably welcome, but as you can doubtless see, we are some years from having a banquet-hall or guest-chambers. Yet you are welcome to what we have.'

'That is well, Lord Elrond, for you have that which I desire above all.' Galadriel smiled as her mount pawed the ground in a moment of restlessness. 'Where, I pray you, is Celeborn the Wise?'

'With Glorfindel and the others with knowledge of architecture that extends beyond my own grand notions, in the pavilion on the hill,' he replied, also smiling.

They continued to exchange tidings and pleasantries, but Elrond found himself looking away from she to whom he spoke. For, some paces behind the lady Galadriel and mounted upon a white palfrey, was a maiden. Her hair, too, shone like the sun upon the water, and her eyes were clear and bright. As he looked into their fathomless depths and beheld something of her heart and mind through them, he knew that he had found she whom it was his fate to love, requited or no, until the ending of all things.


	3. Third Age, 2510

**_Third Age, 2510_**

Elrond closed his eyes and strove to shut out the memory. He could feel eyes upon him and turned to the doorway. Glorfindel stood there, clad as was his sworn lord in garments of the finest make. Unlike Elrond, however, the Noldo wore white and seemed easily the least pained person in all the world, at least to the half-elf's jaded eyes.

'Elrond.' Glorfindel approached, arm outstretched to clasp his friend's elbow. 'Are you quite certain that you are up to this? Can you bear it?'  
'The question is not if I can bear it, but if...' Elrond found his eyes straying to the doorway. 'Perhaps this is folly. What if it is too much for her to bear? Will it not only serve to remind her what has been lost? Will it not drive deeper the stake of pain? Will it not—'

'Peace, my friend. Did she not make clear her desire that it be thus?'

'Her desire... aye, her desire...' Elrond's voice trailed off as again the long years fell away.


	4. Second Age, 3321

**_Second Age, 3321_**

'What do you desire, lady? You have but to name it, if it be anything within the power of the folk of Imladris to grasp, and it shall be yours.'

They stood amid the beeches beneath the gardens of Elbereth, a maiden like the herald of day, and a lord of the deepest twilight. Celebrían, daughter of Galadriel, smiled radiantly, but the fears and sorrows of these darkening days were written deep within her eyes.

'You ask my desire, Peredhil, and I shall answer,' she said; 'but it is not in the power of the folk of Imladris to grant it. I desire peace: an end to the war that has not even begun and an end to the darkness that none can destroy. I desire the freedom to live out the ages of the world in a land hidden from waters and evil and grievous tidings. I desire children, and so I must needs desire a mate. And...' Here she smiled merrily, and a light crackled in her eyes like sparks of mischief. 'And I desire to hear the tale of Lúthien Tinúviel as it was told in the ancient days—and as it was told long years ago when first this haven was founded.'

New joy was born in Elrond's heart at these words, such as he had not felt since the first whispers of gathering gloom in the south-east, and almost the weight of cares was lifted from his shoulders.

'That at least I may grant, lady,' said he, and his spirit sang. There, seated on the dew-jewelled grasses, they passed all the long hours of the night, walking together in the lands of the world that was lost to time and to the Sea—a world that Celebrían had never know.

As dawn broke over the eastern hills and the mountains burned with its light, the tale as it had been told of old was ended, and the teller fell silent.

Then Celebrían sighed in contentment. 'And you, Peredhil?' said she at last. 'What do you desire?'

And Elrond Half-elven looked upon her as she glowed in sunlit glory, daughter of queens and lady of the Noldor, and he could not speak, but the maiden gazed through his grey eyes and read what was written upon his heart.


	5. Third Age, 2510

_**Third Age, 2510**_

'All is ready, young master, as well it ought to be.'

It was Erestor who spoke, coming from the fire.

Elrond's lips curled up into a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. 'That is well, but what of my sons? Are they ready?'

'I have not seen them since the dawn, when they rode forth for the northern forests,' the elf said. 'Fear not. They, of all people, will be present tonight.'

'Aye, certainly, but in what state?' Elrond murmured.

'In a state less distressing than yours,' Erestor answered. 'You are not facing your pain: you have no time to do so, for you fret so over the pain of others, as if this is harder for any to bear than you.'

Elrond shook his head. 'This is not the time to speak of my pains.'

'It is never time to speak of your pains, if one asks you,' Erestor retorted.

The present faded again, for Elrond had heard those very words before.


	6. Second Age, 3433

_**Second Age, 3433**_

'These are hardly pains, my lord. Rather, childish fancies that I ought to be well past minding.'

Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor, pursed his lips pensively and shook his head, keen grey eyes piercing those of his one-time ward. 'Were they indeed childish pains, you would not mind them. I know you, son of Elwing, better, perhaps, than you suppose, and I know what it is that troubles you. You love silently, though I dare not venture a guess as to whom—that much discretion you have had. Who is she, Peredhil?'

'Celebrían the fair, white lady of Lothlórien and child of she who was once called Artanis,' Elrond replied, quietly and fully resigned to the fact that his king and mentor would have it out of him eventually, whether he resisted or no.

'Ah.' Gil-galad nodded, new understanding in his eyes. 'Celeborn's daughter.'

'Aye, Celeborn's daughter, and too high a prize for the likes of me,' said Elrond, gazing skywards. 'Let it pass, sire, I beg you. I am well past the age at which our folk are wont to think of such matters. It is of no import.'

'It is of great import if it causes you distress. Why do you feel that she is too high a prize for you, the lord of all this land and a mighty prince of our folk?'

'I am a half-blood raised by the sons of Fëanor, aggravated foes of Doriath, and not a desirable betrothed in Celeborn's eyes. I am, it seems, unworthy.'

'I will have words with Celeborn. You are my herald and the heir of my blood. One day you shall be king in my place. There is no maiden among all the Noldor too high or too fair for you.'

'My lord, please. Battle gathers black upon the eastern horizons. Even now our great muster makes ready to depart for Mordor. This is no time to speak of love.'

'Times of darkness are the most opportune in which to speak of love, and of marriage,' Gil-galad said, his voice deep and thoughtful. 'Often hope of bliss lends strength to bear a burdened spirit through the agonies of war.'

'My lord—'

'Elrond, your very mode of address betrays your pain. When have you ever called me thus in personal discourse?'

The younger Elda flushed a little at this, but continued his plea. 'Atar-Ereinion,' he amended, reverting to the usual term of endearment for his third and final father; 'I beg you, say nothing. The lady's thoughts may not even be turned to marriage.'

Gil-galad shook his head. 'Elrond,' he said, voice reproving and eyes full of fond amusement; 'do you tell me that you have not so much as spoken to Celebrían of your love for her?'

Elrond cast down his eyes. 'Not in words that are my own,' he said softly. 'Never in words that are my own.'

'Do so,' the High King instructed firmly. 'Do so now, ere we ride away to war and it is too late. And I, as your former guardian and the knight to whom you answer, will speak to her parents as is fitting. Celeborn shall not dissuade you again. If it be written in the weavings of Vairë you shall wed your Celebrían.'


	7. Third Age, 2510

**_Third Age, 2510_**

She had not proved too high for him, Elrond reflected as he was drawn back to the present and the threshold of a parting more bitten than ever that first farewell on the eve of the great war of the Last Alliance had seemed. It was Arda, in the end, which had proved too low, too base, too broken and too vile for one such as her. It was not the half-blood raised by Fëanor's sons who had brought misery and anguish to her, but the remnants of Sauron's dominion. He felt himself slipping into thoughts of darkness and hatred, but the ringing to two pairs of leather riding boots upon the stone floors brought him back.

'Atarinya,' Elrohir said, entering the room and surveying it. 'We are, I hope, appropriately clad for the evening?'

Elrond surveyed his twin sons, and the traces of a smile tugged at his lips. Except for the boots they were clothed like lords in a panoply of state, in long crimson tunics and trousers of darker carmine, which were gathered into the tops of the boots. The younger of the two wore a golden cloak, while Elladan's was silver. They wore their signet rings, and their circlets, set with rubies, were wrought of metals matching their respective garments. Save for the deep anger and grief beneath the sparkles in their eyes, there was no sign of the two unbathed, unshaven and dishevelled warriors who had returned to the valley late the previous evening with black orc-blood on their garments and stained swords on their belts: the marks no longer of duties carefully done, but of swift and never-ending vengeance.

As he looked at them he remembered how they had been a year ago, bold and carefree and valiant, untroubled by their knowledge of dark things. He recalled earlier times, too, before they had grown to manhood... and times even before that.


	8. Third Age, 130

_** Third Age, 130**  
_

She lay in the bed like a plucked lily, pale even against the freshly changed white linen. Her golden hair, soft and feathery with perspiration and the long labours. Her lips were the colour of pink rose petals left too long in the sun, but she was smiling and her eyes shone under the fluttering lids. She was breathtakingly beautiful.

'They are sleeping, beloved,' Elrond said, standing by the bed and stroking her cheek. She smiled wearily. 'I... I do not know what to say...' The image of his twin sons, curled towards each other in the cradle, with their tiny, perfect hands and their heads of dark, downy hair, was emblazoned upon his eyelids, so that when he blinked he saw them. Even after a year of waiting while Celebrían bore them, a year of preparing for the day when he would see the little ones that they were so carefully nurturing, he could scarcely believe that he was a father. 'Words cannot express...'

'Then be silent, my love,' Celebrían breathed, reaching up to take his hand. 'Be silent and lie down. They will not sleep forever, and we are both in need of rest.'

He bent, and their lips met, and a world was formed consisting solely of themselves and their sons, slumbering peacefully by the sunlit window.


	9. Third Age, 2510

**_Third Age, 2510_**

A maiden clad in black silk woven with silver stars came up behind Elladan and Elrohir, bowing before Elrond. 'My lord,' she said; 'my ladies are coming.'

Elrond nodded, and the twins took up their places on either side of the two chairs. The master of the house stepped forward to the door as his lady descended the long staircase. She was clothed in a soft blue gown with trailing sleeves and a curling train, and leaned upon the arm of her escort, clothed in grey with sombre quicksilver eyes and hair like the shadows of the night. Elrond watched them, his heart constricting in untold emotion. He stepped forward and took his lady's hand, and the weight of supporting her was transferred from her escort's arm to his. He took his place by her side with the grace of his foremothers' people, and led her into the Hall of Fire, where her people awaited her on the night of her last appearance as their mistress and their queen.  
He could feel her trembling against him as they crossed the room, and eased her smoothly into her chair, ensuring her comfort before seating himself beside her. The one who had bathed and clothed her and plaited sapphires into her hair knelt at Celebrían's feet, white hands folded into her lap. With their sons on either side and their daughter before them, Elrond gazed at his wife and felt himself tugged back into the past.


	10. Third Age, 249

**_Third Age, 249_**

A shriek of delight followed by raucous laughter floated across the meadows, and Celebrían exchanged a merry and knowing smile with her husband.

Sure enough, a little figure in a bright yellow tunic embroidered with roses in brilliant red came bounding through the grasses and the cornflowers, bare feet leaping and dark braids flying. A squeal escaped the child's lips as she quickened her pace and sprung like a panther into her father's arms, twining her arms about his neck and planting tender kisses on his cheeks.

'Atarinya!' she exclaimed, still laughing. 'They are chasing me! They will tickle me! It is so naught of them!'

With twin war-whoops and a cry of 'Thither she flies!' two lanky young elves bolted into view. Seeing their quarry in Elrond's arms, they let out credible snarls of frustration.

'Well!' Elladan exclaimed, addressing Arwen. 'If you will not submit to us and our tickling...'

'Then we shall take your mother captive!' Elrohir declared enthusiastically.

'And tickle HER!'

Celebrían yelped in surprise as they scooped her into their arms and proceeded to keep their word. Arwen's laughter redoubled. 'Atarinya!' she cried. 'I want to help! Let me help!'

Cradling his tiny treasure in his arms, Elrond stepped forward so that she could join in the game.


	11. Third Age, 2510

**_Third Age, 2510_**

The songs and the storytelling would continue long into the night. Maidens with ribbons in their hair danced before their mistress and children brought flowers to set upon Celebrían's lap. The hours passed merrily enough, but Elrond's heart was heavy. He held his beloved's hand and gained strength and consolation from his daughter's fingers pressed against his ankle. He glanced now and again at Celebrían's face, her softly smiling lips and her empty eyes, and tried not to close his eyes. Whenever he did, he slid back into the past.


	12. Third Age, 2509

**_Third Age, 2509_**

By the time they reached the house, there was no one in all the valley who did not know what had happened. Arwen and Erestor hastened forward, but not so swiftly as the lord.

The caravan halted on the lawn before the doors, and the guard of armed Dúnedain and dour-faced Noldor fell back. Glorfindel and his rearguard, mounted on sturdy mountain horses, came nearer and dismounted.

In the centre of the group were Elladan and Elrohir, haggard, unkempt, half clad and visibly exhausted. Upon their shoulders was a makeshift canvas bier. Only later did Elrond learn that they had borne it all the way from the west gate of Moria in fallen Eregion.

As Elrond reached them, with daughter and counsellor hot upon his heels, Elladan jerked his head in a gesture that Glorfindel understood at once. The golden-haired warrior relieved his young master of his half of the bier. Elladan bolted forward and seized his sister, burying her face against his bare and filth-smudged shoulder and dragging her back towards the house, away from the vision of horror that he could not spare his father.

Upon the bier, wound with makeshift bandages torn from her sons' travel garments and covered with their cloaks and numerous woollen blankets, lay Celebrían—or at least Celebrían's body. At first, Elrond was not certain that she lived at all, adamant though he had been scant days ago that, if indeed her fëa was severed from her body, he would know at once. What little of her that was visible was marred and bloody almost beyond recall, though efforts had obviously been made to clean away the befoulment. Her hair was matted with gore and grime and beneath the filth she was as grey-hued as the last ashes of a failing fire. But from her nostrils in the cold air a faint vapour of breath would appear, far too seldom.

Tears flowed hot and unchecked down the half-elf's cheeks as he looked at her, broken by torment and untold horrors in the depths of the mountains, and he was glad that Arwen could not see her mother now, even as he wished with all his heart that his sons, too, had been spared this anguish.


	13. Third Age, 2510

**_Third Age, 2510_**

Elladan had consented to sing before the assembly, and was just concluding. Elrond had been unable to watch Celebrían as she listened to her firstborn sing for what was perhaps the last time. When Elladan resumed his place behind his father and the music changed to a soft and soothing strain of no particular melody, Elrond dared again to turn his head and to look upon her.

She was so changed now, after all her trials. Her face had not recovered either its full colour or its round perfection, but bore still the marks of privation and suffering and retained a paper-white hue that grew grey with the slightest strains. A long scar marred her temple where some evil thing had grazed her with a serrated knife. Her beautiful hair, which had once rippled like a river of gold down her back, was gone. It had been shorn about her ears for reasons of sanitation when she had been brought back to Imladris, and had grown to below her shoulders, its former vivid gold replaced by a limp, sheenless and colourless silver. It was like the hair of a baby now, limp and fine and spiritless. No more did it crackle in the winter air or shimmer in the sunlight. Like the vitality of her spirit and the laughter of her heart it was sapped and exhausted, reduced to a colourless shadow of its former self.

There was some irony in it, that her hair should now be silver. Her mother- name had proved more foretelling than they had supposed, and not merely a tribute to her father. Once, they would have found it grounds for merriment, as the rank she had obtained through her marriage to the heir of Gil-galad had so many years ago. Now Elrond did not wish to mention it: it was painful enough as an unexpressed thought. She was queen no longer, or would not be after tonight. This was her final farewell to her people and to her life in Arda.

'Peredhil,' she murmured, caressing his cheek with a bony hand... the hand that bore the band of gold commemorative of her union to him and recovered at the cost of much orc-blood by her younger son. 'Peredhil, do you remember how we used to dance?'

'Aye, beloved,' he replied. 'I remember.'

'It seems so long ago...'

Elrond felt the tears gathering in his eyes and felt the pain in his bride's, but he was not surprised that she showed no signs of imminent weeping. She had shed no tears in all the time since her capture. She had languished, she had refused food, she had lapsed into silence for weeks on end, but she had not shed a single tear. She was shattered, her spirit crushed, and she could not weep. Though he had healed her body with all his great skill, he could do nothing to mend her soul.

And so, she must depart for the lands where she might find the solace that he could not offer. They were to set out in two days' time. A litter had been made ready, large enough and light enough to carry Celebrían and a companion. It would most likely be Arwen throughout the journey, for in her daughter she seemed to find more comfort than in any other being. She allowed no one but Arwen to bathe her or clothe her, and often she would not rest unless her youngest child was nigh at hand. Yet Elrond and the twins would travel with the large and well armed escort, for none of them would be parted from her sooner than absolutely necessary. They would travel to the Grey Havens, and Celebrían would depart for the distant West and they Undying Lands. Perhaps there she would find peace.

'Will you... will you dance with me now, Peredhil, when I am so changed?' Celebrían ventured. 'Once more, together?'

'Of course...' Elrond breathed, and he felt as if his heart would break. He rose and offered his hand. She took it and rose while Arwen stepped back and motioned to her brothers. As Celebrían curled an arm about her husband's neck her children took up places among the musicians: Elrohir with a flute, Arwen before a harp, and Elladan with a little fife. 'Let us dance, beloved, and let it be our dearest memory of these later days.'

The music began and they moved together, slowly and gently. Elrond held her tightly about her thin waist, supporting her so that the moment did not need to end so quickly. Her head rested upon his shoulder as they danced, and for a moment they were once more as they had been in the beginning, when the world was clean and new and wholly their own.

Elrond brushed his lips across Celebrían's hair and she gazed up at him, eyes shining with the tears that coursed silently down her cheeks. Her healing had begun, but their time together was over. Yet Elrond knew that he would never forget her as she was at this moment, more beautiful than she had ever been before and once again his wife.


End file.
